To Want

To wait is to want more.
Or to think you want more.

Take a look backyard for the stitches
that seam everything together.

It's unruly back there, yes, but
when there is time, weeds

want and want, an infinite
accordian—to want what they

cannot have, no mirrors
to show them how they look or

lie. How many toys
do children need? For my home,

a rug, yoga mat, clear wax
candles, bath rack with bubble

crystals, a man. You are not for sale,
but other women do not

know this. You do not bother
telling them. I am tempted

to dial each of them up, to inform
them (because of my compassion)

of their safety violation. Wait.
Dig a garden. Always pick up the phone

when you call. Eat only junk food.
Buy a strange pet with short legs.

Copyright © 2005 Victoria Chang All rights reserved
from Circle
Southern Illinois University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission